


Art, Unplugged

by nhpw



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Blowjobs, Chris loves Misha, Everyone loves Misha, Exposition, Fluff, M/M, Misha love fest, Photography, Rope Bondage, Voyeurism, Why isn't blowjobs a tag, author is so not a photographer this is a psa, but not really, unrequited love if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-24 00:56:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16170293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nhpw/pseuds/nhpw
Summary: It's been 100 cons, and Chris has seen a lot through his camera lens.





	Art, Unplugged

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely the fault of a few folks in a particular Twitter group chat. It didn't turn out to be quite the smut-fest I think you all envisioned when you put me up to this, but still. You are all welcome.
> 
> Not beta'd, so all mistakes are mine. But... I'm actually pretty proud of this one.

Chris had the best job in the world.

Sure, things got messed up sometimes. The talent - some more than others - could be obnoxiously hard to keep in the frame, and there was always the occasional overzealous fan who went too far or brought too many props or broke down crying… or, if it was really  _ that kind of day _ , managed to get the hat trick. Yeah. There were a few faces on the regular Supernatural convention circuit that he could never see again and it would be too soon.

But it was absolutely, positively, without a doubt the best job. He got to spend the majority of his time doing what he loved to do, surrounded by people who loved him and whom he loved in return.

Some more than others.

This weekend - the weekend of his 100th Supernatural convention - he found himself looking through the lens at his regular subjects and their revolving door of adoring fans and reflecting on some of the highlights of his time on the road with them.

Fridays were easy, quick, and appropriately casual. He appreciated Fridays for that, because he knew that by Sunday night he’d be chasing his tail and trying very hard to look like he wasn’t. But on Friday, he was present and focused and drinking in the nervous, excited energy of the fans. And as for the cast… please. He’d taken thousands of pictures of these men and women to date - both photo-op and not - and he knew how to make each of them look good. He knew, and he knew they knew he knew. Friday was a memory in a flash.

Saturdays brought a different sort of energy to every con because Saturdays brought Misha Collins. He’d seen no fewer than three generations of humans of every gender swoon over Misha in front of his lens. And really, who could blame them? The man was beautiful, inside and out. He’d yet to find a bad angle from which to shoot him, and that was probably because when he shot Misha, he could see the man’s soul… or some other sort of existential bullshit. But the best part about taking picture after picture after picture of Misha didn’t actually happen on Saturday.

It happened on Sunday.

Sundays at Supernatural conventions were hectic, crazy, and never ran on time. He took more pictures on Sunday than on the two previous days combined. On Sundays, Jared and Jensen were in the house, security was tight, and there was always an undercurrent of everyone being on edge. He tried not to let it affect his work, and he liked to think that he succeeded most of the time. 

On Sunday, he saw Misha more than he saw anyone else. The man was a workhorse, and he wasn’t sure his fans truly appreciated that, because every time he turned around they were asking for more and more and  _ more  _ from him in terms of face time. And Misha had a really fucking hard time saying no.

So sure, Sundays were for the headliners, and that meant Jared and Jensen, but from where Chris was standing - from his view through the lens of his camera - no one shined brighter on Sundays than Misha Collins. And if someone were to lay out all the photos he took on any given weekend and review them for the most-photographed face… they’d find that it was Misha. 

And of those, his absolute most favorite ops to shoot were those of Jensen and Misha.

Chris would take the secret to his grave, but for him, photographing Misha and Jensen together in this setting was like being the photographer at a wedding. Their outfits always complemented each other; their facial expressions played off one another nicely. On their best days, they moved in sync like a single unit - and when things were less great, it was obvious in the way they moved, in the way they smiled, in the way they positioned themselves with fans.

It wasn’t until mid-2014 that he learned he had indeed been watching their romantic relationship evolve through the lens of his camera.

That had happened on a Sunday, too.

He’d forgotten something; had to duck back into the green room at an odd time, and there were Jensen Ackles and Misha Collins, locked in an embrace, lips fused together in what was clearly not a case of “oops, I tripped and fell into his lips.”

He’d tried to exit without being seen, and was nearly to the door when Misha grumbled lazily, “You’re not gonna tell, are you?”

His face flushed. “Of course not.”

“Good. Then you should stay.” He never turned his head to look at Chris, and his eyes never opened more than halfway.

“Um. I gotta…”

“They can wait. You should grab a few shots of this.” He said it as casually as if they were discussing the weather, and dammit, there was something about the casual cognitive dissonance of the situation that made Chris’ photography-wired brain scream  _ stay! Take pictures! They’re beautiful _ ! 

He didn’t say no.

That first Sunday, he snapped four pictures, all in black and white: Two faces, clearly masculine, from joined lips to glistening collarbones; one strong hand with a gold wedding band, gripping at a denim-clad muscular thigh; the toned, shirtless back of a man who sat astride his equally shirtless partner, both of their faces obscured but need radiating from the stretch and pull of their muscles; and one, just one, that included their faces, noses nuzzling and soft smiles trading a softer kiss in a relaxed afterglow.

He kept the pictures on a personal flash drive and handed it to Misha the next time he saw him.

Two weeks later, in another city at another con, in a discrete sleight of hand, Chris had felt the flash drive pressed back into his palm on Saturday as Misha entered the photo op room. “Tomorrow night, 10:00. My room at the Westin.”

And so it became a thing.

Not every con, not every city. Not often, really - maybe 3 times a year, if he was lucky. But it was a thing. Misha would slip Chris a flash drive and a room key and give him a place and time, and Chris would show up, and he’d take pictures of two of the most beautiful men he’d ever been privileged to photograph. He made art out of their bodies-- no, that wasn’t entirely correct. They were already art. It was just his job to capture it on film. What they did together, the way they loved, the way they moved, the way their bodies fit together so naturally it almost wasn’t real - it was art whether Chris was there or not.

Jensen’s back arched as Misha folded over him from behind, hips rolling in gentle upward thrusts - it was art.

Misha in profile on his knees, bare-chested and barefoot, dark denim slung low at his hips and held barely in place by a buckle-open belt as his mouth and throat worked Jensen’s dick expertly - it was art.

Jensen, backlit by the flicker of tea light flames, naked save for the ropes binding him in a dragonfly harness, eyes closed in meditation - it was art.

He called that one  _ The Submissive’s Prayer _ . It wasn’t all that old, actually - early 2017, Vegas - and it was his favorite.

Every time he flipped through these photos, he paused on that one and considered how, in any other life, with any other subject, that shot alone would win him accolades and awards. But he was who he was, and his subjects were who they were, and even with obscured faces and tasteful silhouettes taken by candlelight, he wouldn’t take that risk.

Some things were more important than fame.

“Schmelke!” He snapped out of his reverie as a familiar hand waved in front of his face, and when he focused his eyes, they landed on a relaxed, friendly face. “You with me, brother?”

“Always, Mish.”

“Penny for your thoughts?” Chris just bounced his eyebrows, and Misha laughed in turn before pressing a familiar small rectangle into his palm. “My room, 10:30. Happy hundredth, man.” He winked - as much as Misha Collins ever winked, bless him for trying - and then took his mark in front of the backdrop, ready for his first op of the weekend.

A young woman in a Castiel cosplay stepped up, shaking like a leaf, an Misha pulled her into a hug before facing the camera with a smile.

_ Oh. That one will make a memory for sure. They always come out so much better when he smiles.  
_

No doubt, Chris had the best job in the world. He got to spend the majority of his time doing what he loved to do, surrounded by people who loved him and whom he loved in return.

Some more than others.


End file.
